


the right time and place

by impossibletruths



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Domestic Fluff, Engagement, Happy Ending, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Season/Series 04, pure absolute fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 17:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19834636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: Eliot's waiting for the right time and place to propose. Quentin keeps nearly stumbling across the engagement ring. Eliot's going to lose his mind.





	the right time and place

> _i. the knife drawer_

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that as long as Eliot’s around, Quentin doesn’t really cook.

Not that he _can’t_ ––he’s survived this long; he’s not completely hopeless––but there’s a vast difference between what Eliot considers cooking and what Quentin considers cooking, and Eliot loves him but there’s no way they’re living on quesadillas and mac n’ cheese for longer than, like, twenty-four hours tops. Plus, Eliot likes cooking––enjoys the juggling act, the focus, the way everything else falls away until there’s only the meal. He likes the little flare of satisfaction he gets when everything comes together just right, and he likes watching someone else enjoy what he made. Likes walking the line between showing off and providing for someone.

He especially enjoys providing for Quentin, who can take care of himself, yeah, but shouldn’t have to, not all the time, not when Eliot’s around to help.

The kitchen, consequently, is his domain. He knows where everything is, down to the teaspoon, and Quentin mostly leaves him to it. So you’d think he could manage to hide something there, right at the back of the knife drawer where Quentin’s sure not to go looking, because even on the rare occasion he does try his hand at a more culinary endeavor it’s the easy stuff that doesn’t require chopping and mincing and all those other sort of flashy, fancy knife skills Eliot likes to pull out to impress boys.

And yet. And _yet_.

In fairness, it’s sort of Eliot’s fault. They’re cooking, together, because that’s the sort of domestic bliss they’ve achieved, and Eliot is tending to the sauce, carefully scraping up the fond every now and then, making sure all the flavors are meeting and greeting appropriately, and he says, offhand, “Can you dice the peppers?”

And Quentin, instead of going for the perfectly fine knife sitting on the drying rack, reaches for the knife drawer. Eliot’s life flashes before his eyes.

“Actually!” he yelps, voice jumping nearly an octave. He steadies himself. “Actually, can you come, uh, stir the sauce?”

Quentin stares at him in mild confusion, hand resting _on the handle of the drawer_ , and then–– shrugs. Lets go.

“I’m not a complete disaster, El,” he protests as they trade places. “I can, like, chop vegetables.”

“I know,” Eliot soothes, heart still beating just a _little_ too fast. Like, mile-a-minute too fast. “But I can stare at your ass this way.”

“Well you should have just said,” Q laughs, and grins over his shoulder while Eliot slides the knife off the rack and cubes peppers on autopilot, forcing his heartbeat to steady again. Actually, he’s not wrong––he does have a nice view of Quentin’s backside over the counter.

More importantly, the ring remains safely hidden away in the kitchen drawer, Quentin none the wiser about the close call. But–– Shit. Eliot's gonna have to find somewhere else for that.

* * *

> _ii. the sock drawer_

When Margo proposes a weekend getaway, it’s Quentin of all people who jumps at the chance to visit–– Venice.

“What?” he asks when Eliot gives him a look. It’s the sort of look he means to be wry and a little sharp, and he’s fairly sure it mostly comes out as fond. “I’ve never been to Europe.”

“You’ve been to England,” Eliot points out, and then winces in time with Quentin. Perhaps not the best example.

“That’s different. That’s not, like, the continent.”

Quentin immediately makes a face, like he knows how ridiculous that sounds and that Eliot is going to tease him for it now. Eliot grins.

“Oh, the continent,” he drawls, watching Quentin’s brow furrow further as he fights off a smile. “I myself summered there every year as a boy.”

“Shut up, El,” he grumbles, completely ruined by the way his eyes are crinkling at the corners.

It shouldn’t be possible, Eliot thinks idly, to be so incandescently happy just to see someone smile.

“Well, summer in Venice is horribly gauche but I suppose we can make an exception for you.”

“I knew you cared,” Quentin returns, and in short order they have travel dates and plans and somewhere to stay, and all that’s left is to pack.

Which. Is something Eliot maybe should have thought about sooner.

The thing about being a magician is that, all things considered, it’s pretty easy to go just about anywhere at the drop of a hat, which means most packing tends to be last-minute, and horribly chaotic.

It also means that Quentin is halfway out the door before he remembers, “Fuck, I didn’t pack socks.”

Eliot, finishing up in the hall bathroom, doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he hears Quentin passing back down the hall towards their bedroom. He careens out of the bathroom after him, knocking over toiletries and kicking up the bathroom rug while he’s at it.

“No, Q, wait!” he calls, skidding down the hall and just barely catching himself on the door frame. Quentin, halfway to the dresser, looks back at him.

“El?”

“I, um.” _Think, Waugh, think_. “I packed them already.”

“You packed… my socks?”

“Mhm.” He straightens up a little, tugs his shirt straight. Quentin’s eyebrows have settled somewhere up near his hairline.

“Um. Okay. Thanks?”

“You’re welcome. What else are boyfriends for?”

Quentin opens his mouth, and near the front of the apartment the door crashes open and Margo’s dulcet voice comes floating down the hall.

“Hey! Assholes! We’re gonna be late!”

“Best see if she needs anything,” Eliot suggests, and gives Quentin his best approximation of a smile as he slowly passes by, staring at him just a little bit funny. Not until he’s down the hall does he relax, slumping against the wall.

And then––because he really is a good boyfriend, actually––he grabs Quentin’s socks, spends a frantic minute trying to decide if he should hide the ring in his jewelry box or inside the empty vase near the window, and follows after.

* * *

> _iii. the jewelry box_

“Hey, Q, do you know what happened to that cursed locket we have?”

“It’s not cursed, El,” Quentin says patiently, because Eliot’s been calling it “that cursed locket” since they relieved a pretty dickish pixie of it a week ago. Technically it’s an enchanted necklace––and badly enchanted at that––but Eliot likes cursed locket more. Sounds like something worth stealing off a four hundred year old creature, instead of some frankly kind of ugly old––how had Julia put it? Bling.

“And it is... where?”

“I put it in the jewelry box.”

“You what?”

“Relax,” says Quentin, completely misconstruing why he’s suddenly halfway to panicking. “It’s all wrapped up and everything. And it’s not like the enchantment is going to rub off on any of your stuff. I just didn’t want to leave it lying around.”

“You–– Okay. Right. Okay.”

And he turns on his heel and strides right back into the bedroom, to his jewelry box, which happens to be slightly larger on the inside than the outside because otherwise what’s the point of being a magician.

It’s there, right at the top, an ugly as fuck brass thing that, apparently, Kady needs for some hedge problem or another. He goes digging through to the bottom of the box, checking over drawers, making sure everything is still in its proper place. Undiscovered.

The tiny black box is still at the bottom, untouched. He breathes out a sigh of relief, and then firmly closes and locks the box again, cursed locket––necklace, whatever––in hand.

Quentin’s still sitting in the living room, now looking mildly anxious.

“Sorry about, um, leaving it there without like. Asking. I didn’t go through any of your stuff, I promise.”

“I know,” Eliot assures him. “It’s alright. I’d just hate to have to wear cursed jewelry for the rest of my life.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Quentin assures him in that unbelievably honest way of his. “We’d, I dunno, find an exorcist or something.”

“So glad to hear you have a contingency plan in place for that.”

“Well, given the shit we deal with––”

“Yes, alright, point made. Did Kady say when she was coming to pick this up?”

“Actually, I’ve got to see Jules about something, so––” Quentin checks his phone, then holds a hand out. “I’ll take it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. See you for dinner?”

“Alright. Be safe.”

“Yeah, I’ll do my best.”

Eliot leans in to kiss him briefly, distractedly, and then Quentin’s gone, door clicking behind him. Eliot sinks down onto the couch and buries his head in his hands. 

Too close. _Way_ too close. He’s gonna have to find somewhere else to hide it. Or–– or just come out and say it, ask it, but he's–– Well, waiting for the right place. The right time. He hasn't the first idea where or when that will be, but he's sure he'll know it when he sees it.

Until then, though, he'll have to up his game, or Quentin's going to ruin the surprise for himself.

* * *

> _iv. under the couch cushion_

“Have you seen the remote?” Quentin asks halfway through the episode, and Eliot, deeply invested in the outcome of the b-plot, half turns to him.

“What?”

“The remote.”

“What about it?”

“Have you seen it?” Quentin repeats.

“Oh. No.“

Quentin frowns a little. “Maybe it slid down the cushions?”

Eliot shifts, suddenly not nearly as invested in the episode and very much invested in the little box tucked under the cushion, like a pea under a princess’s mattress.

“I’m sure it didn’t,” he answers slightly too quickly.

“Yeah but you don’t know. Here, get up so I can check.”

“What do you need it for anyways?” Eliot tosses out, and Quentin, standing in front of the couch, frowns at him.

“Eliot––”

“Actually, I know something we can do that’s far more interesting.”

“Than Battlestar?”

He has a point. Eliot does like Battlestar.

He likes Quentin more. He likes Quentin not finding the ring hidden under the couch cushions even more than that. Priorities.

He smiles a slow, hungry smile, and watches Quentin go a little pink in the cheeks.

“I think I might be able to convince you,” he hazards, reaching for Quentin’s belt loops.

“This is a good episode though,” he protests feebly as Eliot reels him in, and he only pouts a little as he settles in Eliot’s lap. “El––”

“We can watch it later,” Eliot promises him, and then they don’t talk for a while.

(They do find the remote under the couch, but both are a little too occupied to remember why they were looking for it in the first place.)

* * *

> _v. the wardrobe_

Sometimes, Quentin’s height comes in handy.

For example, he’s the perfect height for Eliot to sling one arm over his shoulder and steer him around at parties and other social gatherings, just a little bit, in the sort of way that makes Quentin lean in against him, like he knows Eliot’s looking out for him. Or Eliot can just, when Quentin's sitting at the counter, settle his chin on top of his head and wrap him up. And sometimes Eliot can lie down on top of him on the couch and just completely smother him while Quentin pretends not to giggle like a kid. It means he fits perfectly in Eliot’s lap, when he wants to, which is often, and also very, _very_ nice.

It also means he can’t reach the top of the wardrobe, which seems a surefire solution. Way better than the sock drawer, or under the couch cushions––honestly, what had he been thinking? It’s a little dusty, sure, but there’s nothing else up there, and even Eliot has to strain to reach it, so Quentin’s definitely not going to find a little black box tucked behind one of the nice wooden accents.

So when Quentin says, halfway through setting up for a little gathering at their place––because that’s another thing they do now, host intermittent low-effort gatherings instead of actual parties, and _God_ he’s getting old––“Have you seen any of the old board games Julia left us? I think they might be on top of the wardrobe.” Eliot can respond with a certain, “They’re not.”

Quentin frowns at him from where he’s sweeping the living room. “Are you sure? I could go check.”

“No, I was just up there,” Eliot says, slotting books back onto the bookshelf. It’s an eclectic mix of magical theory and Quentin’s nerdy novels, and Eliot loves the contrast with a genuineness that would appall his younger self.

Quentin’s silent for a moment, which is his first indication that something might be wrong. Then––

“You were just up on top of the wardrobe?”

“Yeah,” Eliot responds, like, _yes, obviously, this is a completely normal regular occurrence_. He hopes Quentin buys it.

Quentin doesn’t buy it.

“Um.” His brow furrows in that way that makes Eliot want to smile just to see it, or it would if he weren't suddenly worried about the engagement ring he's been hiding for weeks because he just can't figure out how to fucking propose, seriously, why is this so difficult. “Why?”

“Dusting," he answers.

“Dusting?”

“It’s dusty up there, Q.”

“Right.” Quentin tilts his head at him, mouth pursed, and goes back to sweeping. Eliot hesitates a moment, then finishes with the books. 

“Eliot.”

“Hm?”

“Is everything, um. Alright?”

Eliot pauses. “What?”

“You’ve just been–– I dunno. Is everything okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” he says, honestly a little surprised, and then a little guilty. Has it been that obvious?

Quentin’s still frowning at him, though, uncertain and chewing on his lip, so Eliot skirts around the dustpan and reaches out for Q, tucking a hanging lock of hair behind one ear.

“If it weren’t would you tell me?” Quentin asks, staring up at him, and it takes just about every ounce of Eliot’s control not to spill the secret on the spot, get down on his knee right here in the little pile of dust and dirt and proclaim his undying love.

“Yeah,” he says instead, and pulls Quentin into a hug. “Yeah, of course I would.”

“I just–– I want us to be okay.”

“We’re okay,” Eliot promises, eyes prickling, which is _so_ dumb, that he loves Quentin this much, that it's possible to love anyone this much. “We’re so okay.” And then, just in case he’s forgotten, or Eliot hasn’t said it recently enough, or–– Or, well, just because he can, he adds, “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Quentin says, a little muffled into his shoulder. Eliot breathes in deep, and presses a brief kiss to his temple.

“Now,” he says. “I’m going to find the games and you’re going to finish with the living room and we are going to host the shit out of this _fête_ and prove to Bambi and the rest that we are the undisputed best hosts of all our friends.”

"I don’t think you’re supposed to call game night a fête, El.” He considers. “Not sure it’s a competition either.”

“Have you _met_ Bambi,” Eliot returns, and Quentin laughs, and Eliot thinks–– Thinks maybe there isn't a right time, or a right place. Maybe the right time and place is just him and Q, together, and the rest will fall out how it will. 

* * *

> _+i. the flower vase, again_

Eliot comes home a week later with flowers, a dizzying bouquet of lisianthus and night-scented stock and tulips. Quentin looks curiously up at him.

"Did I forget an anniversary?”

“No,” Eliot assures him, palms a nervous-damp around the stems.

“Did _you_ forget an anniversary?”

“If I did, how would I possibly know?”

“So what’s the occasion.”

“Oh, well,” says Eliot. “The flowers were looking a little wilted.”

The flowers over the mantle, he means. They’ve had sunflowers all summer, and they’ve been keeping them pristine long past their usual time with a nudge of magic every now and then. They don't even need water, because magic is useful like that, keeping flowers alive in an empty vase. So wilted is a bit of an overstatement––they’re maybe a little curled at the edges, but they could make it another week, month. Quentin pushes himself up off the couch.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay.”

“Mhm,” Eliot agrees. “So I’m going to prep these if you want to, um, bring me the vase?”

“Um, sure,” says Quentin, not sounding particularly sure at all, but he grabs the vase, follows Eliot into the kitchen where Eliot sets the fresh bouquet down in the sink and goes fishing for a pair of scissors.

"Should I toss these out?” Quentin asks next to him, and adrenaline spikes through Eliot.

“That would be great,” he agrees, turning away from the drawer to watch Quentin carefully pull out the old bouquet, and–– pause.

 _Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum_ goes Eliot’s heart.

“Um, El?” Quentin frowns down into the vase, already reaching for it. “There’s something in here.”

And he pulls out the little black box. He frowns at it a moment, lovely little furrow between his brow, and his thumb finds the clasp and the lid pops open silently.

Quentin stares at it a moment, expression softly blank, and then curious, and then–– and then––

Eliot sinks down to one knee, because he's going to do this properly, dammit, even if Quentin is intent on nearly discovering this particular secret at every turn, and Quentin looks from the ring in his hand to Eliot, to the ring again, and says, thick with tears, “Oh.”

“Quentin,” says Eliot and oh, fuck, he’s going to cry too, shit. He takes a deep breath and laughs a little bit, shaky. Quentin is staring at him, eyes wide and shining, mouth a little _oh_ of shock. “I–– um.”

Oh, it’s so much harder than he thought it would be. Everything he meant to say seems to have flown right out of his head. He reaches up for Quentin’s free hand and Quentin lends it to him without a word, and it helps a little, to run his thumbs across Quentin’s knuckles, against his palm. To have this to anchor him when he looks back up at Quentin’s shining eyes, his shock, the wonder beneath it, so enormous Eliot doesn’t know how he can possibly hold upright under the weight.

“Q,” he tries again. “I really don’t have a, um, great track record on the relationship front. Like, historically, not so great. But I’ve been thinking about–– us.” He looks up to check, to make sure Quentin is still here with him, still okay. Quentin nods just a little. Eliot swallows. “And I’ve been thinking that we–– we work. I mean, I knew that, or you knew that, but it’s–– you’re right, Q, we do, and we are. And you are just––” He’s crying, sort of, tears at the corners of his eyes that he ignores as best he can. “You are just–– so strong, and so brave, and so–– good, and true, and I–– loving you is the best thing I’ve ever done. Probably the best thing I’ll ever do. Everything else, it doesn’t even compare.” He takes a breath. “So I thought, maybe, since we work, we might–– I mean, I was wondering if maybe you––”

The words stick in his throat, and he’s crying properly now, because he doesn’t have the–– words for it, for how fucking incredible Q is, for how his heart feels too big for his chest and delicate every time he looks at him, for how much it _aches_ , this love, how much it overwhelms him. How he’s absolutely insignificant in the face of it and he doesn’t even _care_ , because he would do anything, absolutely anything, just to see Quentin standing before him like this, all wonder. He wants those fifty years again, wants to see him old and grown, wants to be right here at his side through all the good and the bad, wants it with a terrifying, unspeakable hope that could swallow him whole.

How is he supposed to put all that into words? It’s impossible. Language isn’t nearly enough.

And Q––wonderful, beautiful, kind, strong Q, who understands him, who understands him better than he understands himself sometimes, who loves him better than he loves himself sometimes––though he’s trying; for Quentin he’s trying as hard as he can, every damn day, to be as good for him as he can be, to be as worthy and as brave and as loving as he can possibly be––

Q kneels down in front of him, crying and smiling, all dimples, and he says, “Yes.”

Eliot stares at him, almost dazed. “Really?”

“Yes, yeah. Yeah, El, I’ll marry you.”

“Great,” he says, and then–– laughs, breathless and heady, and says, “Q, oh my God––”

Quentin is laughing when he kisses him, and there are too many teeth and it’s the best kiss he’s ever had because it’s his _fiancé_ they’re going to get _married_ and Eliot is crying when he says, “Wait, shit, where’s the ring, I want to––”

And he fumbles for the box, and slides the little band on Quentin’s finger and kisses him again, and again, and they’re on their knees in the kitchen and both crying and laughing and holding each other and Eliot thinks if it were possible to die of happiness he would, but instead he is living the most wonderful, perfect moment of his life.

“Is this why you’ve been so fucking weird,” Quentin asks with a breathy little laugh, fingers tangled together and foreheads pressed against each other and breathing in the same incandescent joy.

“Yes,” Eliot says, and, “You have the absolute worst timing, constantly.”

"Yeah?"

"You're giving me grey hairs."

"I’m keeping you on your toes,” Quentin tells him. "Anyway, you'd look distinguished."

“Of course I would.”

"Silver fox."

"Exactly."

“I can't wait.” And he grins at the ring on his finger, blindingly bright, and Eliot laughs and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> Tulips are for hopeless love, stock is for affection, lisianthus (also called prairie gentian) is for worth and integrity.
> 
> you can also find me on [tumblr](http://impossibletruths.tumblr.com/)


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